


The Blood God's Sacrament

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Blood Drinking, Fear, Gen, Privations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Takes place between "Prince of Blood" and "A Rose Watered With Blood".How Angron might deliver Lotara from her suffering as only a Red Angel can.





	The Blood God's Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> Kharn is often referenced but has no speaking role.

She came to him of her own free will; her lack of retinue, of appropriate entourage and decorum, was proof enough of that. Mind you, the most dangerous thing on board -- and the only thing that had a chance of killing her -- had ascended past even that of the Astartes' range of combat.

The Devourers did not protest when she moved past them. Part of it might have been respect but she suspected it was by and large pity.

Lotara had last looked herself in the mirror some thirty hours prior. It had been three days since the new Navigator had come, three days since she had had anything to drink. It pained her to admit it, but she had single-handedly depleted the bombast's supply of spiced wine. And still, she thirsted; and still, she remained on the brink of death.

Her vision swam and her limbs felt like her tongue: swollen and heavy, too large for her mouth. It hurt to move them. It hurt to swallow. It hurt, even, to breathe.

In the face of such conditions, she nonetheless managed to keep herself upright. As with piloting, she had taken the greatest risk purposely -- before the point of no return. In twelve or so hours, her body would have been rendered utterly uncooperative and there was little chance of the Legion risking their few remaining Medicae to haul her down on a stretcher. It was therefore necessary that she made the journey on her own, of her own volition and on her own feet, sapped of endurance though she was.

As she stood before her lord (though he still hated being called that, if Khârn's most recent conversation with him were anything to go by), the Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, Lotara had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. Truly, her madness knew no bonds.

The chains which had already been broken during Khârn's visit rattled as Angron stirred, turning to look upon her. Though she was a celebrated captain and a noteworthy individual by mortal standards, she suspected his current form allowed no cognition for anyone less than a Space Marine. And perhaps not even that.

In the darkness of the dungeons, Angron's eyes burned. The flame spread, from his face to his neck and then down his body, until blood and flame were indistinguishable and Lotara was certain she would collapse from the heat alone.

"Little sighted paperskin," Angron greeted. His voice was as rough as she remembered, though noticeably more coherent than when they last spoke. "You've come at last."

He reached out to press a thumb to her face. Lotara tensed in anticipation of a branding and was shocked into stillness by the otherworldly coolness of his hand. He had always been enormous, despite being one of the smaller brothers, and his palm was large enough to hold -- or squash -- her head.

Never before had Lotara remained silent before her lord. At the present, it was not a matter of courage but that of ability. Even if she were to gather the strength to move her mouth, she knew no sound would escape. It was a startling reversal of roles, she realized, as Angron continued to thumb at her cheek. She had been like this for a matter of hours; Angron had suffered under the nails for a century and then some. She thought of Khârn, resting she hoped, stationed somewhere too far to intervene, and how his father's one and only gift would plague him for time immemorial.

Yet Angron too, was capable of care. He smiled and she shivered, fearful he had read her thoughts, and his next words seemed only to confirm her suspicions.

"Grave-grubber Khârn did not bring you. He pretended you had died. But I know better. Even paperskins have pride."

His immense fingers curled against her head and it seemed as if he would pinch the whole thing off. Lotara was reminded of her first officer, Tobin, and how he had been mindlessly slaughtered on her command deck. By one of their own no less. But Angron did not move to kill her, rather, his fingertips stroked at the back of her neck, where her blond hair had been cropped to the scalp.

"You cut your hair," Angron noted, and he gave a snort of mild displeasure, "I wanted to pull it. But I feared your head would have gone with it then. But now..." he dug his fingers in, almost imperceptibly, as a demonstration of how well he could modulate his strength, and Lotara would have wept with grief and frustration and relief, had she the tears to shed.

The Primarch pulled his hand back and Lotara forced herself to breathe. She locked her knees, even as her sight blurred.

Angron was speaking to her and now that she had the pleasure of listening to him in control without the damnable twitching of the Nails driving him to lunacy and an unnatural death, she realised what a pleasant voice he had, so much like his brothers. Truly, they were the Emperor's finest creations.

"Grave-grubber Khârn thinks he knows me so well. He thinks to protect you," Angron laughed, slapping a palm against his knee with such force, the whole ship lurched from the gesture, "Your life is short and miserable as it is, I will not end it prematurely."

Lotara wished she could dredge up the consciousness to feel flattered. Here was Angron, more or less declaring that he would not kill her, even though what he had done to his flagship had spelled death for every mortal crewmember on board. As it was, she concentrated on breathing and standing upright.

"Why have you come here, Captain?" Angron asked at last, reaching out again to stroke at her short, dirty, and hastily-cut locks. "Are you following grave-grubber Khârn's footsteps? Will you pledge your service to me anew so that I may remain forever a slave? Will you tell me that you serve my will, only to limit my own actions beyond that of any reasonable master?" He continued stroking her hair with his cool hands and asked again, in what was practically a purr: "Tell me why you've come, paperskin."

Lotara transferred her energy from her legs to her right arm, lifting it up so that she could touch Angron's hand. Though she had been in his service for more than a decade, it was the first time she had dared touch him. His skin was like that of a man, rough with scars and welts but human all the same.

She thought of the tens of thousands of legionaries who would kill for such an honor and at last found enough breath to both laugh and speak, for it was arrogance, arrogance beyond description, that she might journey to meet him like this.

"I am here to die," she rasped out, and fell forward as her whole body shook with death spasms.

-

Angron caught her, though she was not aware of it. When she next came to, she was cradled like a babe in the Primarch's lap with Angron himself still seated upon his throne of skulls.

"Here," Angron said, thrusting a goblet filled to the brim with blood at her, "Drink."

Lotara obeyed.

"Drink slowly," Angron commanded as she started choking from the taste. One hand was against her back, gently propping her up, while the other moved to tip the goblet back further.

It was blood; there was no doubt about it. The goblet had been filled with blood

This is it, Lotara thought. At this rate, I will drown before I die of thirst.

It was awful, slick and coppery and not at all like water or wine or anything that she had ever drunk before. But it was liquid and it was a direct order from her Primarch and so she obeyed. In time -- without gagging or choking -- she managed to drink the whole cup and only then did Angron pluck it from her hands as she clutched at her throat, suddenly short of breath.

It was impossible. She had just drunk a litre of blood, not water! And yet --

Her thirst was unmistakably quenched.

"How...?" Lotara asked, staring Angron in anguished disbelief.

"The Warp has always been in you, Lotara," the Primarch answered, "It has always been in all of us." He lifted her up and set her down as one might treat a child -- though really, the size comparison between a mortal and a Primarch was beyond such comparisons -- before resting a great hand on her shoulder.

"Go now," he said, "Before grave-grubber Khârn thinks to hound me again."

"My lord," Lotara said on instinct and then corrected herself immediately, "Angron."

"What is it, paperskin?"

"What would you have me do?"

Angron laughed at that. "What you do best, Captain. Clear a way to the Throneworld. I want to tear down my father's golden walls."


End file.
